Negotiating with a Rapier
by Eyowyn
Summary: One might say that humility is not one of Fiora Laurent's virtues...if one were not afraid of losing one's head. She is the best, and she knows it. But when Jarvan asks her to escort an Ionian diplomat to Demacia, her arrogance is challenged by the calmest woman in the world. Will be continued, but is hiatused for the mean time.
1. Part 1

**Rapier Negotiation**

« La première erreur prend ta adversaire à la légère. »

_The first error is to take your opponent lightly._

"No. Your senses have left you," Fiora snorts, pulling on her silken gloves. "Are they in the nest of la dragon ou la faucon this time? "

"Laurent," Jarvan growls, curling his heavy gauntlet into a fist and slamming against the wall by the duelist's head, "do as your future king commands you, or I swear, woman-"

"Comme vous voulez," she sighs extravagantly, "just this once."

The two Demacians straighten up reflexively as they hear footsteps at the beginning of the hall, and Jarvan winces as he looks at the hand-shaped imprint he left in the powder blue stone.

"Clumsy," Fiora sniffs with one last tug on her gloves. She tucks a lock of her dark hair behind her ear and offers Jarvan a catlike smile.

"See, mon petit prince héritier, I prepare to go. This woman's name, what is it?"

"She's Duchess to you," he threatens. "I expect you to be on your best behavior, Fiora."

"I am best always, mon chou."

* * *

Fiora is prepared for the woman's icy gaze but it is the silence that makes her uneasy. The woman walks with a calm, patient tread, her hands hidden in her long black and white sleeves and her eyes fixed on the horizon. Fiora trots by her side, scanning her surroundings, stroking the guard of her rapier, looking for anything to interrupt the tedium.

"So!" she says forcefully, extending her blade with a flourish, "You have heard of me, I expect!"

"Indeed I have, Lady Laurent," the Ionian says with the slightest incline of her head. The red teardrops painted under her eyes gleam mockingly at Fiora, who grimaces.

"You know, the greatest swordsman in the world is a woman, and this woman is I!" she continues, settling her cape over her arm and making a few feints at the air. The Ionian continues to walk, not even sparing her work a glance.

"I see," the woman murmurs.

"Imbécile," Fiora hisses angrily. "Greatness is here and you do not look at it!"

"Oh, but I doubt that," the Ionian says calmly. "Lady Laurent, do you know what the most powerful force on Runeterra is?"

"Strength of arm, strength of the blade!" the duelist snaps.

"No," she says, with a slow, pitying shake of her head. "It is discipline. And you are without it."

Fiora quivers with rage and levels her rapier at the woman's chest without a thought. Before the point can pierce the thick cloth, she hesitates, remembering her duty, and jerks it back to her side with a snort of disgust.

"Tu as de la chance," Fiora spits. "If duty held me not, I would challenge your words with my steel."

"You would not be able to harm me," the Ionian says, turning fully to face Fiora. Her calm brown eyes are intense. The power in her gaze drains the breath from the duelist's lungs.

With a shout, Fiora thrusts at her, and gasps as her rapier is nearly jarred from her hand. She dares to look at the Ionian and sees her, hand outstretched, the tip of Fiora's blade resting against the pad of her index finger.

"With understanding comes wisdom, Lady Laurent," the Ionian says calmly. "Find discipline."

Fiora sheathes her blade with a shudder as the woman shows her palms. They are unmarked.

* * *

"—and this is the House Lightshield, flanked by the barracks of the Dauntless Vanguard and the House Crownguard," Fiora grumbles, pointing out objects of interest with her rapier as she leads the Ionia through the streets of Demacia.

"Very interesting," the woman murmurs. "Where do you live, Lady Laurent?'

Fiora flushes and covers her face with her arm as she adjusts her cape.

"Il n'y a pas un maison de Laurent à la ville," she mumbles.

"I fear I do not understand you," the Ionian says apologetically.

"Laurent has no house," Fiora snaps. "Mon pére, my filthy father, lost it for us."

"Ah," the Ionian murmurs, "forgive me, Lady Laurent."

"My name is Fiora," she sniffs, "I have honor."

"Fiora," the Ionian says quietly, and the duelist shivers. She feels like the woman can look into her soul sometimes, and she cannot understand her blade, pressed against the Ionian's bare hand.

"There, the embassy. Merci Dieu, my task is done. Good-bye," she says roughly as she moves to turning away, her head held high.

"Your chakras are troubled, Fiora," the Ionian replies, examining her critically with those deep eyes. "Vishuddha, the Throat, is blocked. You must find security in yourself and your abilities, in your worthiness."

"Ionian rubbish," Fiora snorts.

"When you have done this, you may come to me again," the woman finishes, her lips briefly curving in a serene smile.

* * *

"Who is next?" Fiora calls, a savage grin on her lovely face. Servants scramble around her silver boots, mopping up pools of blood, as yet another challenger limps away.

"Might I?" a voice calls, and Fiora stiffens as the Ionian woman glides out of the crowd.

"What are you doing here?" she growls.

"Learning," the Ionian woman says. "I hear tale that you once made those you defeated lick your feet and cry for your mercy before you let them go."

"Well—" Fiora says, shifting from foot to foot. "There is no need for that now. They know I am the best."

"Are you the best, Fiora?" the woman asks, and holds up her hands.

Fiora takes a deep breath and settles into her fencing position, her rapier darting out to taste the air. The Ionian watches her silently and makes no move to call the blue-green fire she uses on the Fields of Justice.

Fiora feints to the woman's right and then lunges at her shoulder, the duelist's rapier moving in a blinding arc. It hits with a shrieking crash that reverberates all the way up Fiora's arm, but she can almost feel something beneath the blade, like a shifting, second skin. She presses down with all her strength, her focus narrowing to the razor tip of her rapier.

Without warning, she yanks her blade back and swings again at the same spot, heedless of the sweat sliding down her back or the jealous murmurs of onlookers. The Ionian is the only person that exists for her. The rapier scrapes against the barrier again and Fiora grits her teeth.

But the woman smiles, a bright smile that shows her teeth.

"Look, Fiora," she says, and gently pushes the rapier away from her shoulder. Reluctantly, Fiora lets her, and steps forwards to look at whatever the woman is gesturing at.

There is a single loose, black thread on the shoulder of the woman's overdress.

Warm relief floods through Fiora and she lets the woman place the thread in her hand without complaint. When the Ionian steps forwards and touches the hollow of her throat, however, she freezes and eyes her suspiciously.

"Can you feel it?" the Ionian asks.

"What do you speak of?" Fiora grumbles.

"Your chakra," the Ionian says, as if that explains anything. But Fiora can feel something fluttering under the muscles of her throat, like a tiny bird with wings that alternates between icy and burning. It is a strange, exhilarating sensation. The Ionian's fingertips glow faintly blue green and she finds that she can almost visualize a silver crescent, pressing against her neck, surrounded by pale blue light.

The Ionian withdraws her hand and the feeling fades to nearly nothing, though now that she knows it exists she can sense it on the edge of her mind.

"Ionian rubbish," Fiora sniffs, but with less certainty than before.

"You are learning," the Ionian says calmly. "Be confident, Fiora. Your honor shines out of you like the rays of the brightest star. Confidence approaches discipline. But beware arrogance, for though it and confidence are close cousins, it is poison in your breast."

"You are here and I would ask why," Fiora replies, a challenging ring in her voice.

"I asked her to come and watch your duels," Jarvan growls and the duelist whirls around to see her future sovereign slumped in one of her best chairs, sipping a glass of whisky. "The Duchess needs the occasional break from her ambassadorial duties."

"Demacia has held her already for one fourth way of a year! It is the time for leaving, no?" Fiora asks indignantly.

"There is much to discuss," the Ionian says simply. "Farewell, Fiora."

"Good-bye," Fiora sniffs. But she watches them leave, leaning on the hilt of her rapier.

She wishes that she had asked the Ionian's name, but it is too late now.


	2. Part 2

"La seconde erreur se prend à la légère. »

_The second error is to take yourself lightly._

Fiora paces impatiently in her chamber, watching the crystal screen that hangs over her lushly-appointed bed. Faint blue light shines over her dark silk sheets, carelessly rumpled, and she squints at the hazy image of the conferring summoners.

"The blue team selects Quinn, Demacia's Wings, as their first pick!"

"So slow!" the duelist growls, pausing to sit on her bed and tug on her boots. She wiggles her toes and stands back up, bouncing from foot to foot. Her hair gets into her eyes and she dashes it away with her off hand, narrowly avoiding skewering herself with her poniard. Fiora pauses a moment, then lunges at imaginary opponent, stabbing her rapier through the wooden breastplate of one of the heavily battered training dummies lining the walls.

"The blue team selects Karma, the Enlightened One as their third pick!"

Fiora dances around the dummy, her blade flicking in and out, spurts of sawdust erupting from where it pierces the cloth. She parries an imaginary blow and darts forwards, shoving her poniard through a gap in the dummy's armor up to its hilt. With a contemptuous snort she yanks it out and smiles as the dummy collapses in a pile of sackcloth limbs.

"And, for the last pick…Fiora, the Grand Duelist, will be joining the blue team!"

Her head snaps up and her smile widens to show her glistening teeth.

"Finalement," she purrs, sheathing her weapons and bending in a lazy stretch to her toes. "It will be good to fight again."

Fiora wonders briefly who is on her team, then dismisses the thought. It is not like she will need them.

Cold wisps of magic trace up her arms and she shivers in delight. There's a wrench at her center and the world fades out and back in with the brilliant greens and silvers of Summoner's Rift. She pushes past the other figures on the platform without looking at them, shoving her way to the merchant and beckoning at him impatiently. Silently, the magical construct gestures and Fiora rolls her shoulders as her skin briefly itches all over as the tiny token of a piece of cloth armor floats over and imprints itself on her polished gorget. He tosses her a hand's worth of tiny red vials, which she shoves unceremoniously into her belt before drawing her rapier with a flourish and strutting off the platform, ready to head up to the top lane of her team's side of the Rift.

"Fiora?"

She stiffens at the sound of that serene voice and pivots on one foot to meet the eyes of the Ionian woman. A gasp breaks through her clenched teeth.

The woman is…her heavy black and white overdress, boots, and pants have been replaced by a long, loose violet robe that falls from her waist in several large flaps. Her arms are bared aside from metal bracers and a delicate construction of silver floats behind her muscled shoulders, two ornate wings that frame a swirling dragon of verdant fire. Her legs are very visible and another dragon spirals its way up her left leg in brilliant green ink.

Fiora stares, blinking every few seconds in a desperate attempt to return the vision to what it should be. Her efforts are futile.

The Ionian flushes under her scrutiny but her gaze never waves. Fiora thinks the woman looks…powerful. Unafraid, bold and flashy, a challenge to all who sees her.

"Ionian," Fiora hails her with a wave of her rapier, "you look like a warrior. Je l'aime. It suits you."

The woman's eyes smile, though her mouth only curves slightly. "I am glad you approve, Fiora. I must confess that you have been some inspiration for my choice of garment."

"C'est vrai? But I do not show my pretty legs like you do, ma cherie," Fiora says wickedly. The Ionian splutters for a moment and Fiora takes some pity on her.

"Ah, but I have these lovely silk tights and they are nearly as good," the duelist says expansively, running a hand from her knee to her hip.

"Yes," the Ionian says quietly. "Confidence. That is the key."

They part with a wave and a smile, and Fiora feels a surge of fondness for the poor, uptight woman. It is good to see her loosening up.

And if she looked trés belle and made Fiora's heart flutter, all the better.

* * *

It is later in the game and Fiora is at the height of her game. Her focus is precise, her blade is as swift as lighting and precise as a needle, and her agility sends her weaving around blasts of poison, meat cleavers, and bullets. She joins her team in the middle lane and appraises the Ionian leisurely as she waits for the enemy team to appear. The woman's brown skin shines with sweat and her dark red hair has escaped the restraining metal rings that held it in order and spills down her back in a glorious mass. Her tattoo shines with the same light as the dragon above her head and her face is grim with determination. Fiora's eyes trace down her back and the duelist smiles ruefully.

A maddened roar from Dr. Mundo begins the fight and Fiora lunges into combat, her blade singing with the blood in her veins as she slices her way from foe to foe. She feels a rush of cool wind around her body and hears the Ionian shout "focus!" and skewers Caitlyn through the torso as her desperate bullets shatter inches from Fiora's face. With a vicious cry, Fiora whirls and begins her blade waltz to the groans of her enemies. Her feet barely touching the ground, she leaps from enemy to enemy, stabbing her poniard into weak joints and thrusting her hungry rapier deep into their flesh, her hyper focus directing her effortlessly out of the way of harm until she finally stops with a contemptuous back thrust of her rapier into Dr. Mundo's chest. A shudder of exhaustion passes over her as she jerks her blade out of the mutant's flesh and turns to survey the carnage. The Ionian shouts something in her language and a wave of green fire blinds Fiora as a bolt of energy leaps from the woman's hands and slams into Cassiopeia. The snake woman hisses in agony and tries to slither backwards as the earth underneath her trembles with the force of the woman's will. But she is too slow, and shards of rock suddenly detach themselves and explode upwards from the ground, impaling her in a thousand places and making her sink, lifeless, to the ground.

Fiora woops as the announcer booms out her team's ace and she wipes the blood and sweat out of her face. The rest of her team has fallen in the carnage but she and the Ionian remain, ready to fight down the lane and shatter the enemy's Nexus crystal.

"C'est la victoire, ma cherie!" Fiora cries. "I am the best, as I tell you before."

"Don't let karma come back to get you on that," the woman murmurs wryly, brushing off her smoking palms on her split skirt. Fiora laughs, and with an arrogant toss of her head she steps forwards, picks up the woman's hands, and kisses her lightly on both cheeks before withdrawing to smirk at her.

"But you see," the duelist says, "I defeat all these, I can surely defeat this karma, too!"

The Ionian is silent, and as Fiora breathes in the smell of the dust and the blood and the magic she feels an electric tingle run up the backs of her legs to the small of her back and to her fingertips. She can smell mangoes and incense and feel the Ionian's breath on her face and realizes, with painful clarity, that she can no longer hold the woman's hands in friendly meaninglessness. So she drops them like hot coals and turns away stiffly, her chin held high, ready to face the rest of the match.

But even as her rapier carves through the stone of the turret, she can still see the woman's startling beauty as a shadow behind her eyes.


	3. Part 3

"La finale erreur prends qu'es que vous vous faites à la légère."

_The last error is to take what you can do together lightly._

It simply isn't right for her not to know the Ionian's name. Fiora holds a great deal of contempt for most of champions in the Institute, especially the magic-wielders. She regards magic as a crutch that is dishonorable or worse, but although the Ionian does not fight with fist or weapon, her powers do not offend the Duelist's sensibilities.

She is alone in her manor one morning, sipping a glass of Zaunite wine while she stretches before her exercises, when she comes to a realization.

"If my home she can invade, then I can do the same! Oui, c'est une idée spectaculaire! » Fiora shouts, her head in between her ankles.

The next ferry to Ionia encounters an unexpected delay when Fiora marchs aboard, quite without her ticket or passport, and demands the captain's cabin for herself.

"Are you insane, woman?" the poor man asked.

"I am Fiora," she proclaims. "You expect the greatest duelist on Runeterra to sleep below decks? Non, je ne crois pas!"

"Well—" the captain gulps as Fiora pushes her way past him, sits down on his bed, sets her belongings on his end table, and starts pulling off her cuirass.

"If you wish to argue more I shall fight you for it," she says.

That evening, the captain bunked in the medical officer's cabin, and attempt not to fall asleep on his stab wounds.

The ferry ride passed relatively uneventfully, although Fiora demanded cocktails every hour, on the hour, and spent her time lying on a hammock out of the deck, stark naked.

"I must bronze my beautiful skin!" she told horrified mothers and speechless sailors.

When the ferry arrives in Ionia, Fiora feels quite refreshed (and slightly tipsy). They dock at a port in Navori, and the duelist steps off the boat onto the crystal sand of the most beautiful beaches in the world. She looks around at the flowering trees, the glassy blue of the ocean, and taps her chin thoughtfully.

"Three paintings?" Fiora mutters. "No. There is not enough space left on the wall. Life is so very difficult, mon Dieu…"

She selects the first beachgoer she sees and shouts, "You! The great Fiora, which is I, demands to know how to get to the capital! Vite, vite, I have many duels waiting for me back home!"

"Oh, gods," said the terrified woman. "The boat wasn't enough?"

"Vite!" Fiora demanded, snapping her fingers.

"Take the northeast road to get to the Placidium," the woman said reluctantly. "It'll take you about a week, though. Are you looking to speak with the Duchess?"

"The Duchess? Oui, very much so!" Fiora says, delighted. "Goodbye!"

"Wait—" the woman says, but Fiora brushes past without a second glance. The duelist's mind is entirely on the nameless Ionian.

She requisitions a horse (by pointing her rapier at the stable master for five seconds) and sets out towards the Placidium.

* * *

Ionia is not prepared for Fiora. A handful of ninjas from the Order of the Shadow ambush her about three days into her journey, after she has gotten so bored that she has begun to fence with bushes along the side of the road.

"Merci Dieu!" she cries as soon as they lunge for her. "What I've been waiting for, at last!"

The Order of the Shadow prides itself on its members' ruthless discipline. Its master, Zed, would have been deeply disappointed by his acolytes' reaction to Fiora's joyful squeal. They hesitate in their strikes and watch, dumbfounded as she rips her rapier from its sheath and promptly skewers them each in the chest within the space of a breath in a whirl of steel.

"What?" one of the ninjas manages to say before a second series of lightning-fast thrusts from Fiora punctures his lung.

"I am so grateful, there is no imagining it for you," Fiora says earnestly. "Ionia is so very much _boring!_ At least you die to amuse the Grand Duelist."

She remounts her horse with an indulgently satisfied sigh and brings it back to a gallop, leaving the ninjas lying in bloodied heaps by the roadside. There is a low crack of thunder and she glances swiftly at the sky, but the sun is blazing fiercely enough to burn away even the thinnest wisps of clouds.

Behind her, a tiny, violet-clad shape inspects the bodies and then looks after her fading figure. He cocks his head, his keen ears twitching, and sniffs several times. His eyes widen, and he backs away into the forest before evaporating into crackling silver-blue light.

The rest of her journey passes by fairly uneventfully, and soon the tall, slender walls of the Placidium rise to greet her. The area is a gorgeous combination of white tiled terraces, glass-smooth pools and tiny streams trickling over chimes, and the brilliant pink flowers of Ionia's distinctive cherry trees. Here and there are delicate rock gardens, elegantly carved benches, and statues carved from pure jade in the image of a serpent, curled in on itself. The light touch of magic floats on the breeze.

At the very center of this beautiful place is a small compound of stone buildings with roofs titled in ruddy clay, and it is there that Fiora heads, after handing the reins of her steed to one of the faceless guards in brilliant scarlet armor.

She finds the Ionian, as she suspects, sitting on a bench with her face tilted up to meet the sun. The ruby teardrops under her eyes sparkle like gems. She wears a light dress with endless spirals of black and white, a pink stone in the center of each, and her brown shoulders are bare. She is smiling.

"Bonjour, ma chère," Fiora says quietly.

The woman opens her eyes slowly and looks at the duelist. Her red and black hair is loose and her metal rings hangs around her neck. Fiora has never seen her so relaxed and open before.

"Whatever are you doing here, Fiora?" she asks.

"I—" Fiora replies, her normal confidence faltering. She straightens her shoulders and touches the hilt of her rapier for comfort. "You come to my home so often, I think I should be able to do the same."

"You are welcome here, then, my friend," the Ionian says. Her smile doesnot change, but a certain warmth comes into her eyes.

"Anywhere would be lucky to have me," Fiora snorts. Her hands are trembling beneath the thick grey calfskin of her gloves. "You stayed in Demacia so long—why is this?"

"There was much to negotiate," the woman says, her expression stiffening slightly. She leans forwards to rest her elbows on her knees.

"Mon petit prince héritier is a picky one, oui. Always wanting more—respect, women, power. Mais, he cannot control Fiora. I am a free spirit!" Fiora says confidently.

"But you came to escort me as he desired," the woman says, a brief twinkle in her eye.

"I must humor the man on the occasion," Fiora sniffs. She sits down by the Ionian. Their shoulders touch.

"Compromise is part of Ionian life now," the woman muses, looking out at the Placidium. "Vows of nonviolence have been broken. Monks became soldiers. And I—I became a symbol. The Duchess and the diplomat, making treaties and brokering peace. Signing her countrymen into service in Demacia's wars for its continued support. Is this my _e'kalo_, my sacred destiny given to me by Byara-Santi?"

"To do what is necessary to survive, this is no sin," Fiora says, touched by the openness of her words. "Wordcraft, like swordplay, is art. An artist must choose his paintings wisely."

"I once promised never to harm another living being," the Ionian murmurs, her voice rich with sorrow. "Neither the insects under my feet or the birds above me would ever suffer harm because of me. The milk of cows, the fruit of the trees—these would be my only sustenance, taken without pain to any creature. This oath I have broken a thousand times over. I have eaten raw liver at Sejuani's table. I have watched Zigg's experiments without begging him to stop. I have toured beehives in Demacia and watched grubs crushed underfoot. And I would do it all again, for my country. But my soul suffers for it."

"Duchess," Fiora cries, reaching over and taking her hands. They aree warm and small compared to her long fingers, and she wraps her hands around them tightly.

The Ionian looks at her without a sound.

"Jamais peur," the duelist croons softly. "Remember your Vishuddha? Such talk is not fit for your throat. Your will is your second skin, ma chere. As you have told me, your discipline, votre courage, is stronger than armor. There is no more holy woman in the world than yourself. Do not be tainted by doubt. Have confidence—like myself!"

The woman licks her lips, then speaks. "Fiora—"

"Silence," the duelist says imperiously. "Look, I have learned. I read all about your chakras. I shall show you and you shall have this doubt no longer."

Still holding her hands, Fiora leaned forwards and pressed her lips to the Ionian's forehead.

"Sahahara," she attempts to say. The Ionian's shoulders shake with quiet laughter.

"Sahasrara," the woman corrects Fiora gently.

"Hush," Fiora growls. She kisses the space between the woman's eyebrows. "This is Ajna."

She can feel the warm blood spreading under the woman's skin. Fiora moves past the woman's mouth and presses her lips against her neck.

"Vishuddha," the duelist says firmly. She can feel the soft blue pulse of the chakra in her own neck as she has learned to sense it over the months, throbbing in time with the ageless energy she can feel from the sister chakra inside the Ionian's neck.

"Fiora," the woman says softly. "You are…this is normal, in Demacia?"

"Non," Fiora says, grazing her lips against the Ionian's collarbone and listening to the slightest intake of breath the woman takes. "I am Fiora. What is normal, follows me."

The dress has only the slightest of low cuts and the duelist kisses the woman's sternum as low as she can.

"Anayhattah. Anahata," Fiora says. "Are you restored in your strength yet, Duchess? Shall I continue?"

There is a certain, wicked, giddy excitement in the duelist as she leans back to study the woman's face. Her mouth is slightly open and her eyes are very wide.

No—I am fine," the woman says. "I am…quite fine."

"Very fine," Fiora says approvingly. "I like this dress. I must buy one."

"Will you be staying in Ionia long?" the Ionian asks, slightly out of breath. There is a certain distant light in her eyes, a sort of wondering bewilderment.

"Wherever you go, I will be also," Fiora says, pressing her fingers into the woman's palm. "You must teach me more of your strange Ionian chakras, of your battle-discipline. I can show you how to fence, how to buy art and wine and fine foods."

"How will I pay you for such services?" the woman asks. Her whole body tenses.

"There is a secret I want from you," Fiora says, leaning so far forwards that their noses touch. "Your name, ma chere, what is it? I know it not."

The Ionian laughs, a high, sweet sound like a summer bird. Then, with exquisite elegance, she kisses Fiora lightly on the mouth.

"Karma," she whispers. "It is Karma."


	4. Author's Note

**Author's Note:**

**Once upon a time, before I began writing Permafrost Diplomacy, Karma was to be escorted by Fiora on her diplomatic mission to Freljord. **

**This story is a loving homage to that idea, which I eventually passed over to focus more on Karma's interactions with her fellow Ionians (especially Varus).**

**It was intended to be completed with this third part. However, my dear readers, you seem to really want more with their relationship. I will consider continuing. It will become a story about dealing with the Order of the Shadows, if I do, and it will end up being quite a bit longer than it is now.**

**I will probably continue unless you strongly prefer it to stay a three-parter.  
**

**Edit: Looks like you want more! Plus, Part 3 got 600 views which is a new high for me :D. So, there will be more Karma and Fiora coming. I'm also going to do an homage to this story early in Part 2 of Permafrost Diplomacy for kicks. Replying to anonymous reviews below.  
**

**Dear Anonymous Viewer Z,**

**Karma is a boss and way under appreciated. Fiora is more the main character of this one, but Permafrost Diplomacy is solely Karma's POV and you should check it out. She's the badass spiritual medium and I've got some good fight scenes planned for her where she gets to do more than shield people. And it is such a delight to write Fiora-I am a French student so I am desperately trying to get her grammar right and you must forgive me for my mistakes. But I always try to make her speech patterns to reflect her accent rather than changing words themselves, and her mix of "I don't give a crap" and genuine fondness for Karma is always fun to try and express.  
**

**Dear Deadman Infinite,**

**You know, if you log in I can PM you :). Anyways, your sacrifices have been appreciated by Pallas, who is feeling rather lonely after Chapter 7 in Permafrost Diplomacy, and she has "suggested" that I continue. So I shall!**

**Also simply because yes.**


	5. Authors Note: Part 2

Dear beloved readers,

I worry so much about leaving you neglected for all this time. I am especially terrified that I might have forgotten to respond to your reviews, and if I did you should private message me and tell me to get my act together.

Let me explain, if I can, why I have been neglecting you. I am a senior in high school and college applications are coming soon-very soon for me, as I am going Early Decision. There is a book I have been working on for almost 6 years, and I want to have it finished and published before November 1. Therefore, I have been spending all my time and energy writing and editing so it can be ready for that crucial deadline. Trying to update Permafrost Diplomacy AND Negotiating With a Rapier AND A Light in the Desert is just too much for me right now. But after November 1, I plan to take a nice, relaxing break from original fiction...and return to fan fiction.

Rest assured, my stories ARE being continued and ARE NOT forgotten. I have been playing Evelynn a lot lately and it makes me desperately want to write about her. But I just can't spare the creative energy right now.

So, I must beg for your forgiveness right now, and ask your patience. I will be back...2 months from today. And I will be posting a link to my story when it is published, so you can see what I've been wasting all my time on :)

Endless love,

Eyowyn


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